These Arms That Were Your Home
by avesycielo
Summary: It's July 1917 when renowned war poet Siegfried Sassoon is sent to Craiglockhart War Hospital for 'neurasthenic' treatment. Desperate to get out of 'Dottyville', though still determined to stand up for his cause, the arrival of a certain shy, stuttering boy from Birkenhead changes everything.
1. Endlessly

**Hey! So, this is my first fanfiction. Ever. Little bit nervous here. ;) I'm studying **_**Regeneration**_** for my AS English Literature, and I'm just captivated by the relationship between Owen and Sassoon. Been doing a lot of wider reading, (some examples for others should you be interested are **_**Not About Heroes**_**, **_**Siegfried's Journey**_**, **_**Goodbye to All That, **_**etc.****) which has really helped. Unfortunately the transformational element of my coursework is only allowed to be 1,000 words -.- so I decided to branch off on my own and explore the VASTNESS of worldwide fanfiction! (:**

**It's taken me ages to work up the guts to post this for one reason or another, but here it is.**

**Hope you enjoy!**

**WARNING: Contains strong scenes of a sexual nature, homosexuality and strong language. Rated for a reason. SLASH CONTENT – if you don't like this, don't read this!**

_**Disclaimer: I do not own 'Regeneration' or hold the copyright to anything of Pat Barker's creation. If I did, there would be a lot more Owen/Sassoon in it! The views and actions expressed and taken in this story are completely fictional, whether rooted in actual evidence or not.**_

_Craiglockheart War Hospital, Edinburgh, November 1917_

'_When I'm asleep, dreaming and lulled and warm, -_

_They come, the homeless ones, the noiseless dead._

_While the dim charging breakers of the storm_

_Bellow and drone and rumble overhead,_

_Out of the gloom they gather about my bed._

_They whisper to my heart; their thoughts are mine._

"_Why are you here with all your watches ended?_

_From Ypres to Frise we sought you in the line."_

_In bitter safety I awake, unfriended;_

_And while the dawn begins with slashing rain_

_I think of the Battalion in the mud._

"_When are you going out to them again?_

_Are they not still your brothers through our blood?"_

Sassoon lay huddled beneath his bed sheets as yet another lightning bolt cracked the already wounded sky above in half. The deep blue ink soaked into the parchment below his fingers and glared upwards, as if challenging him with the same question which he had just penned. The depressing clouds of a summer storm had descended upon Craiglockheart War Hospital in early evening. Now, at what Sassoon estimated to be a few hours after midnight, the knocking fists of rain were still pounded relentlessly at his window, depriving him of sleep and, perhaps most significantly, refuge.

His eyes followed the trickles of raindrops down the windowpane. The weather appeared to be demanding something from him, and Sassoon knew all too well what it was. The storm questioned why he was not outside withstanding the gale; or, rather, why he _no longer was_. 'Come out!' It seemed to beckon; 'You know you'll have to eventually.' Yes, agreed Sassoon silently, yes, but that wasn't the only literal sense of coming out which he knew he would have to face up to.

In his restlessness, he turned onto his back, reaching out a hand to fumble for a cigarette on the table. Owen...Sassoon had been trying to erase the image of the younger man's infectious smile from his mind's eye for the past four hours. They had gone out for a drink in the Conservative Club that evening - Sassoon's ears were still ringing with the laughter they had shared over two ciders each plus a weighty volume of Keats' finest poetry. Once midnight arrived, the two men had ordered a taxi back to Craiglockheart just in time for the hospital gates' closure. Am I the only one? Sassoon's heart leapt into his mouth for the millionth time that night. Or was it then it happened?

Relaying the next event only proved to awaken him further. Sassoon and Owen had stridden into the darkness of the main corridor, and, still full of raucous laughter, had proceeded to the front room, where a fire had still been blazing in the grate. All Sassoon could think about in the midst of their drunken haze was the swish of Owen's hair when laughter rocked his lithe body. His eyes were so bright and captivating; his manner, normally so soft and nervous, was self-confident through the alcohol to such an extent that the young man had teased and mocked him in just the same way Sassoon did to him on a daily basis. His gentleness was what Sassoon found most attractive about Owen, although he was sure a part of both of them had known that in a bid to forget their fears neither was the same man after a drink or two. Despite this, their laughter had inevitably soon faded as they once again became accustomed to the thick, dull atmosphere of their temporary home. An atmosphere which had led to Owen recounting his scarring encounter with an abandoned German dugout the previous March, and had caused frustrated tears to leak from the youth's eyes.

"I stayed there for three days. Three solid days with Barnbury's body in pieces around me. The worst part was thinking; nobody's coming. I will die here, alone and without a familiar face. I still think it was worse than death in some ways. It can't be that lonely over there, can it? That's what Ollie always used to say. Too many fellows gone already...sometimes we thought it was probably emptier there at the front line." At this point, Sassoon had taken note of the glistening rivers streaming down his friend's face.

"Why, Sass? Why?" was all Owen had been able to utter by the end of his reminisce, and this had been the moment, thought Sassoon bitterly, in which his own emotions had found it necessary for him to reach over and take Owen's hand in his own.

So obvious! He cursed himself silently in between drags for fear of waking Campbell in the bed next to him. If he could only have passed the action off as a handshake! If he had only not let it run away with him! He had managed it before, had he not?

But the damage had been done. Owen's soft eyes melting with his had been too much for the deep, long-buried knowledge in the recesses of Sassoon's soul to bear. He had known all along that his feelings for Owen were likely to manifest themselves in some shape or form before one or both of them returned to France, but he would have given anything for it not to have culminated in this way.

And then Sassoon had retired to bed. Retired being an unsound word to use, thought Sassoon sorely as the rain pitter pattered continuously into his thoughts. No, the scene had occurred more similar to Sassoon hastily making his excuses for why he should leave the confused and even more scared Owen downstairs, and then being burned by the heat of Owen's eyes on his back as he had hurriedly climbed the stairs to his room. He dropped the cigarette butt onto the carpet, hoping it would not stain. Yes; Sassoon thought it fair to conclude that this really _had _ruined everything.

Their literary evenings and afternoons had been Sassoon's life support during his stay at the hospital. Admittedly, he enjoyed golf with Anderson every Sunday, but the point of the activity was more to stem the amount of time which he wanted to spend with Owen to a 'normal' amount so as to not arouse anybody's suspicion, most of all Owen's. Especially from Rivers. Sassoon was sure that his psychiatric doctor knew _exactly _whichof his personal details 'disqualified him from military service', but uncharacteristically of Rivers, he had never probed further into the matter, something which had always surprised Sassoon. The doctor seemed to enjoy probing into everything other aspect of Sassoon's personal life, if it could even be named taking into account the current state of affairs.

Owen's shocked and confused face continued to linger behind his closed eyelids. There had been others before, certainly, but not this...it was like Owen had always been the one. When the shy, stuttering amateur poet had first inched his way into his quarters on that afternoon in late October, Sassoon had known it was him and...no other. He hadn't meant to come across as so arrogant to the poor boy – when he thought about it deeply enough, Sassoon could comprehend that he was used to being in control. His feigned superiority was a falsehood; Sassoon needed it in order to resist the younger man's dark complexion, the quick scribble his long artistic fingers produced on blotting paper and the unsure mannerisms he displayed whenever they were together. His suggestion of Owen bringing his own poems to Sassoon had merely been an excuse for him to be able to see into those melancholy blue sapphires once more, but fate had lead it to be more than that. Poetry had tied these two men together in a way in which nothing else could. Wilfred had the ability to live and breathe in the art of literary, and by watching him swiftly improve over the last two months Sassoon had seen the poetic horizons offered by the war extend far beyond what he ever had thought possible for men to achieve. It was quite simple, really. Owen could explain suffering.

Now those days would be no more, thought Sassoon in utter devastation, catching a tear which had escaped from his eye with his sleeve, and his mornings of solitude would merge into afternoons and evenings too. Those mornings where he would tell Owen he was writing, working on something major perhaps; yet when he sat down to write, Sassoon was only able to pen sentences that read together formed a painting of the one person who society told him he could never have, howbeit he was falling in love with.

The knock of a tree branch hitting the roof resounded throughout the room. Sassoon allowed his tired eyelids to droop shut. So much for mental healing through sleep, as Rivers kept telling him. The knocking came again, softer this time. If he was lucky, then perhaps the rhythm would lull him into unconsciousness. Unconsciousness was just what he needed...to forget the pain, both of Owen and of what lurked deeper...

The knocking was too precise to be a tree. Sassoon's eyes shot open, yet as he moved to lift his tousled black hair from the pillow the door opened slightly, pouring a chink of light through the gap. What on earth? Swinging himself out from under his bed sheets, Sassoon grumbled as he stumbled towards the door in the darkness. It would be Rivers waiting, perhaps wanting help with a difficult nightmare victim, or perhaps Matron, demanding to know why the fresh linen she had deposited outside his bedroom door only yesterday had not yet been replaced by the old. This hospital was meant to be a place of rest and recuperation, and instead all he got was wary knowing looks – looks which screamed the word _pacifist_ into his soul – and the added sorrow of mentally scarred officers. Wonderful.

The huge glassy blue eyes watching Sassoon from the doorway were neither that of Rivers nor Matron. Sassoon felt his mouth grow dry, a feeling of utter dread welling somewhere between his stomach and throat. Before him stood Owen, with his identically tousled black hair, face carved by angels and candle flickering in one shaking hand protruding from the cuff of his night shirt.

"Sass."


	2. Where Silence Masters All

**WARNING: Contains strong scenes of a sexual nature, homosexuality and strong language. SLASH CONTENT – if you don't like this, don't read this!**

_**Disclaimer: I do not own 'Regeneration' or hold the copyright to anything of Pat Barker's creation. If I did, there would be a lot more Owen/Sassoon in it! The views and actions expressed and taken in this story are completely fictional, whether rooted in actual evidence or not. **_

"Wilfred. What are you...?"

Owen stepped through the gap and into the room, clicking the door quietly shut in his wake. Sassoon glanced over at the sleeping form of Campbell, whose head seemed to be buried beneath the pillow in a deep sleep in spite of the raging storm outside. He turned back to Owen, who had placed the stump of candle on the wardrobe top. If Sassoon had ever wanted to run in his life, it had never been more so before now. Even in France the thought of death by firing squad had been enough to root his quaking legs to the ground, yet a thousand miles away here in Edinburgh he could not deny his fear as Owen turned to face him, his expression a mixture of what seemed to be comfort and concern.

Sassoon knew he was the one at fault, and cleared his throat. "Wilfred. About earlier. I'm sorry about...well, what I did. I overstepped the line when my only intentions were to comf-"

Owen shushed him with a frantic glance over at Campbell. "Careful. You might wake him. Sass, let's stop being so stiff upper lip for a minute. You know as well as I do that what happened earlier was support of one another in a time of need, and that's nothing to be ashamed of. I don't mind, I _didn't _mind at all...Justplain shock, I guess." Sassoon winced. "Plus you know I wasn't in the right frame of mind to react properly...all that talk about last March..." his voice trailed off into the night. Owen fixated his gaze onto Sassoon, who trembled when he took note of the fact that Owen's shirt was hanging open by a couple of buttons near his neck. It took all the willpower Sassoon had in the world not to just lean forward and cover that pale neck in deep kisses, but Sassoon held fast onto that willpower. He had been holding on to it his whole life long, and if earlier hadn't been a good indicator that this was the correct thing to be doing, Sassoon didn't know what would be. He wasn't about to let go now.

Tearing his eyes away from Owen's seemingly porcelain skin, he feigned relief, chuckling: "Well, as long as you...know that. I'd hate to think our friendship would have to end under some misinterpreted issue over...masculinity." Perhaps things wouldn't be so bad after all.

"Oh, but masculinity's hardly the word, Sass. Most men here are so worried about _emasculinity_ that they isolate themselves completely from the others. I wouldn't say you were one of those."

"Of course. But it's hardly feasible that someone could voice that view without being tarred with the same brush as...erm, well..."

Owen breathed out, and Sassoon suddenly noticed that his usually disguised stammer had now disappeared completely. Why was that? Christ, those eyes. "_Tarred_ is a slightly strong word, don't you think?" His voice was lower, lengthier between the syllables. Sassoon found that, instead of searching his mind for a reply, he was imagining how Owen's thick dark hair would feel between his fingers. God, a bedroom was not a good place to mention...especially considering how Sassoon felt about Owen, whether he admitted to it or not.

Wilfred's face had taken on a new expression; his eyes were fixed on Sassoon's, never leaving his face, while a tantalising smile played across his lips. Sassoon was beginning to feel more and more uncomfortable. The collar of his nightshirt was prickling his neck with sweat, whilst Owen...Sassoon could not work out what was going through Owen's mind. Weakly, Sassoon attempted to smile back through the layers of perspiration building on his forehead. Surely Owen wasn't deliberately steering the conversation in this direction? Surely he knew how fatal an admittance like that could be in this time and place? Either he was still drunk, Sassoon contemplated, and playing with him just like they had been downstairs before the path of their discussion had changed to a more morbid subject, or Owen was...suggesting. It could only be the former.

He gathered his voice once more. "All I'm saying is, I don't think it would be possible for someone to embrace the idea of emasculinity without - without raising doubts about their personal details."

Owen's sly smile widened. "Is that so?" he purred in a low growl Sassoon had never heard him use before. It was incredibly sexy. He felt the telltale lump beneath the waistband of his trousers swell as Owen took a small step towards him. Sassoon had always felt in charge. He had always been the tutor, the knowledgeable published poet, and most importantly, the world weary friend to Wilfred. This sudden exchange of positions made him both excited and unsure at the same time. He could see Owen's collarbone protruding ever so slightly from his open shirt. God, he wanted to touch him. He could not believe what was unfolding before his eyes...surely he was dreaming.

"May I raise a question, Siegfried, concerning..._your_ personal details?" Owen was so close now that Sassoon could feel the obstruction of the chest of drawers behind him. In his burning blue eyes was the look of lust, and Sassoon knew that his body would soon begin to betray his commands due to their closeness. His breathing came in ragged gasps as he realised the sheer reality of what was truly happening. Owen was seducing him in the candlelight. And by God, it felt good.

"I think you already know the answer, Wilf-" he managed to gasp as Owen's lips made fiery contact with his. Sassoon grabbed Owen's waist and pulled him up against him, the merged heat of their bodies causing them both to moan with pleasure as their desperate kiss continued. The flow of passion was incredible as floodgates guarding months of pent-up desire came rushing out in the open. Owen's exposed neck was soon covered in the belated deep kisses of Sassoon, which drove him to rake his fingers through Sassoon's smooth hair against the wall.

Suddenly, Owen pulled away. Frightened by the loss of physical contact, Sassoon froze, his eyes searching Owen's face for some sign of resentment, of regret, disgust. Yet all he saw was Owen's gentle blue eyes now full of fire, beholding him in his ruffled, fervid state. He had never felt so vulnerable or aroused in all his life.

Owen began to run his fingers down Sassoon's chest until he reached his waistband. Tugging at it slightly, he gazed again at Sassoon with his wanton eyes.

"Owen..." Sassoon managed to utter, his desire too ablaze to speak coherently, "If you...if you do...there...there's no going back..."

Owen grinned again, bringing his forehead to rest against Sassoon's. It was torturing Sassoon to have Wilfred so close to his skin without reaching out to touch his slight body, but he was too nervous that Owen would pull away again.

"There's nothing I want more..." Owen whispered, his voice cracking as Sassoon finally worked up the courage to slide his hands down his back and circle his waist, "...nothing more than y- oh, _Sass_..."

Sassoon let out a low groan simultaneously. Through some rule of nature, making Owen feel that way intensified his feelings to the same degree...The next thing Sassoon knew was Owen was sliding his trousers down his legs.

He'd never been naked in front of a man before. Owen seemed to revel in his size - something Sassoon had learned to accept through time - and before Sassoon had time to relish the cool air on his skin, took him into his mouth.

"Wilfred! Wilfred..." Sassoon gasped as Owen began to slide his mouth up and down him. This was nothing like he has ever experienced before. He could barely prevent himself from crying out loud from the ecstasy Owen was giving him by the slightest of movements. His silent gasps and heaving chest seemed to please Owen, who continued faster and faster until slowing to an intense rhythm.

"Wilfred..Will..ohh, Will, please.." Sassoon could barely control the words tumbling from his open mouth as Owen pushed him towards his peak. Knowing this, Owen gently stopped, and withdrew with a flush of crimson on his normally pale cheeks. The spark in his eyes told Sassoon that he was still desperate to give him pleasure, but right now he needed to touch Owen. He needed to make him feel love. Sassoon wanted him like he'd wanted him all those lonely nights before.

He gently pushed a confused looking Owen backwards onto the bed. The moonlight shone directly onto their faces, revealing them to each other. The two poets' lips crashed together as if to defend the moonlight's revelation; their love was as fierce in the light as it was in the dark. How Sassoon wished it could be that easy. He withdrew his mouth to unfasten the buttons of Owen's nightshirt, and in doing so discovered his one physical scar - on his upper hip. The wispy line, as if drawn by a pencil, trailed completely across his hip bone and then down slightly into the curvature between his thighs. Owen noticed the direction of his gaze and hastily clarified the cause.

"Gallipoli. Some German sniper aimed right for my stomach - lousy shot, the bullet path almost bent right around. It's not that deep, just a long..graze..."

His words were cut short by Sassoon planting a lingering kiss on the almost invisible battle mark. His mouth trailed up Owen's right side as he let his left hand wander up to his chest. Sassoon's moans joined Owen's again as his hand explored the rigidness of his chest. The strong muscles he had built up in officer training had obviously stayed with him. Amidst Sassoon's jumbled thoughts, Owen's warm hand suddenly drew Sassoon's up to his right nipple. Owen seemed to melt whenever Sassoon's fingertips stroked the sensitive area. Withdrawing his head, Sassoon gazed down at the love of his life, his face contorted in pleasure as he continued to stroke his chest lightly. Owen's eyes blinked open for a moment and met Sassoon's. When they closed again in another vibration of pleasure, the war finally faded away from their minds and into the ether. When he was with Sassoon, Owen could forget; and when Sassoon was with Owen, the lightning outside was silenced.

Sassoon felt his fingers almost magnetically drawn to Owen's crotch. Through a shuddering breath he placed a hand over him, to which Owen reacted by trying to sit up.

"Sass..you don't need to...I mean...I'm not...oh, Sass!" Owen growled again as Sassoon nudged him slowly back onto the pillow. The groans his chest emitted were music to Sassoon's ears.

"I want to, Will," he answered him, kissing Owen's forehead gently, "I want to make you feel like you made me...let me..."

The thunder rumbled back and forth along the heavens outside, as if in anticipation of what was to come. As Sassoon began to undress the rest of Owen's body, he couldn't help but marvel at what was happening. This had been his dream and fantasy for as long as he had known Owen, and now here he was, lying totally unclothed in front of him. The thought almost drove him crazy. He pushed his lips into Owen's neck as Owen's arms slid to his hips again.

"Have I mentioned..." hissed Owen through clenched teeth, "...that I have always wanted to grab your hips like this?"

Sassoon grinned, pushing Owen's smooth hands up his body until they began ripping impatiently at his shirt. "And I was always under the impression that you watching me play golf every Sunday was perfectly innocent..."

Owen's eyes widened at his first glance of Sassoon's chest beneath his shirt. He began to tentatively run his fingers over the toned abs and hair until he heard a soft change in Sassoon's breathing. His smile resurfaced.

"You really can hardly talk, Sass, seen as this is the situation you the teacher have ended up in with your so-called _student_..." Owen arched his neck upwards to run his tongue along Sassoon's. The moan this evoked from Sassoon reasserted his desire to please Owen. Clasping his hand around Owen's hard member, Sassoon began to stroke up and down, gazing into Owen's eyes as he increased his speed. Owen seemed barely able to cope with the arousal this produced within him.

"Sass..." he whined, pushing his sweaty head of hair into the pillow with its intoxicating smell of the other man, "oh, Sass..I need.._you_.."

"Will, you can have me, I swear..ohh.._ohh_.." Sassoon couldn't help but groan with Owen while watching the tension within him coil tighter and tighter. I love you, Owen, he thought to himself, oh Owen, I love you. I wish you just knew how much.

Sassoon knew Owen was getting closer to release, and bent down to capture his mouth in a passionate kiss whilst gradually slowing down his pace. Hs quiet whimpers of passion floated into Sassoon's ear as Owen took his lower lip between his teeth.

"That was..." Owen was breathing heavily, his face glazed with sweat, "...incredible, Sass." He gazed up at Sassoon, and Sassoon could have cried from the love he saw was visible within those sapphire eyes which had frequented his dreams so often.

Without warning, Owen suddenly rolled Sassoon onto his back and slid between his legs on the bed. Sassoon looked down at their tangled bodies, and felt a sense of comfort, the very same sense of comfort which had begun this entire night for him and Owen. Owen kissed him frantically, relishing in the response this created in Sassoon. Once again, he was under Owen's command. He felt like he realised this was something he'd been missing in every relationship, whether sexual or non-sexual. He had never let anyone in, never let anyone lead him in life. Now, he was. The warmth created by their two embraced forms seemed to cocoon them into their own private existence, in which nobody was criticized nor denounced. The smell of Will and the texture of his skin were nothing less than beautiful to Sassoon in the moonlight. Words he thought he would never have been able to say began to roll off his tongue as Owen began kissing his heaving chest.

"Will, I..." Sassoon was cut short by Owen's discovery of his own shrapnel wound. Nearly five inches long, it curved across his otherwise perfectly formed chest like a sparrow's flight trail. Owen traced it lightly, and drew Sassoon's face into his hand.

"Sass..Siegfried.." Owen murmured, his deep eyes unlocking the powerful feelings within Sassoon once more, "...I want to make love to you. Please, let me make love to you, Sass..."

His voice was shaky once more, but only through passion. Sassoon's breathing swelled to a climax as Owen's naked body pressed firmer against his own, "Will...yes...but..only if it's what you want..."

It was obvious by Owen's reaction what he wanted. "Oh, _Sass._..it is..." Sassoon knew Owen could feel his arousal and need pressing against him. He loved it when Owen moaned his name. As their lips touched again, Owen instinctively pressed himself against Sassoon's heated body. When the lower halves of their bodies momentarily touched, both men cried the other's name. Owen pressed his forehead into the crook of Sassoon's neck, and after a few blissful seconds, slowly pushed into him.

"Oh, God!..._Will!_ Owen! Oh, oh, oh..." Sassoon no longer cared whether Campbell heard their lovemaking or not; he couldn't ignore the emotion and electricity which was flowing between their two connected bodies now. He opened his eyes and looked at Owen's expression, which was frozen in concentration and desire.

"Oh, Will..." Sassoon groaned, pulling Owen in deeper by his hips, "I don't want to ever let you go..._ohhhh!_" The feeling of fullness, of completeness, was more than he could comprehend. It was Owen, Owen everywhere, Owen always, and always would be. Owen inside of him. _Owen..._

"Sass..Sass, look at me..."

Sassoon opened his eyes. Owen's sweat drenched face and messy coal black hair were a beautiful picture together. The look in his face was one of intense pleasure, and showed the need for Sassoon to understand what he was on the brink of saying.

"Wilfred..." Sassoon managed to gasp, "Wilfred, I..."

"Sass, I love you. Oh I love you. I love you. I love you, Sass. And I always, _always_ have..." Owen threw his head forward and pumped faster and faster until Sassoon felt their chains break away forever.

"_OWEN!_"

"_SASS!_"


	3. Before the Face of the Sun

**WARNING: Contains strong scenes of a sexual nature, homosexuality and strong language. SLASH CONTENT – if you don't like this, don't read this!**

_**Disclaimer: I do not own 'Regeneration' or hold the copyright to anything of Pat Barker's creation. If I did, there would be a lot more Owen/Sassoon in it! The views and actions expressed and taken in this story are completely fictional, whether rooted in actual evidence or not. **_

Hours later, Sassoon held Owen against him while he pushed his hands through Sassoon's now thickly messy hair. They were still lying together on the bed, although the need to lie side by side had now become evident.

"What I said when we...I meant it, you know. I do. I always have." Owen murmured against his chest.

"I know, Will. I've been wanting to say the same thing for three months and never figured out a way how. I worried that I never would. You said it so beautifully."

Owen smiled. The two men lay entangled among the bed sheets and revelled in what would have to be a short period of closeness until Owen's inevitable departure back to his own quarters.

Sassoon traced the muscles of his lover, and grasped Owen's right hand in his, "From this hand springs forth some of the most powerful and poignant war poetry in England."

"Lies and slander. Besides, even if they were half as good as you say they are, would the government be interested in them? No."

"Because they speak the truth, perhaps? And they're written by a dashingly handsome young poet from Oswestry. What's not to want?"

"You're always calling me young. It's only 6 years' difference. And to be fair, I don't think you felt like the older one last night..."

"Too right I didn't. But that way, or this way, or even when you were shy; I fell in love with a young poet from Oswestry..."

Owen grinned at Sassoon, their faces inches from each other across the pillow. Owen sighed. One day, that pillow would again be the war. Separating them from what they loved the most. Each other.

As dawn arrived, Sassoon curled up against Owen's warm form. The birds began to sing as the dewdrops left by the night weather suspended themselves on blades of grass. The storm had passed, leaving a clear blue sky overhead, a rarity for an English November.

* * *

><p>Sassoon arrived down in the main hall for breakfast ten minutes late, wet hair clinging to his face from a hasty bath. He joined the queue of other brown clad men waiting for their trays while the sun blazed through the full wall windows. Sassoon noticed that a VAD had even plucked up the courage to open them to the garden, letting the smell of dew and cloud intermixed drift into the otherwise stuffy front room.<p>

Rivers watched the tall dark haired man move slowly and deliberately along the breakfast queue. His most intriguing patient, or perhaps most easy, did not appear to be in good health today. The large circles under his eyes symbolised a sleepless night, which was not surprising to Rivers as the storm had battered the west wing of the building particularly badly. What he did not understand, however, was the look of smugness emanating from Sassoon's face. A tight smile was pressed upon it, and his usually bored air had something of an added elation to it. This strange combination of appearance seemed only to have caught Rivers' attention and no-one else's. Just as well, he thought, watching Sassoon heap sausages and hash browns onto his empty plate, it might be another extravagant idea for the declaration perhaps, which some of those present here could consider to be slightly..._anti-war. _He didn't look forward to interrogating Sassoon later that day in their scheduled appointment.

Brock nudged him sharply, and Rivers turned his attention from watching Sassoon to his colleague next to him.

"Look right there," Brock groaned quietly, "What _has _he been doing to himself?" Rivers followed the direction of his gaze and froze, knowing he understood this much more than Brock. Owen, the young neurasthenic officer whom Sassoon was so friendly with, had just rushed into the dining hall fastening his belt buckle. The look upon Owen's face echoed that of Sassoon's...and, most importantly, there seemed to be dark, purple marks dotted all over his neck.

"I knew he was getting worse!" cursed Brock, angrily stabbing his remaining bacon onto his fork, "Self-harm...this can only be the beginning of a downwards spiral, Rivers...I'll have to prepare carefully for our appointment today...don't want to speed him into doing anything reckless..._again_..."

Rivers was still in shock. Surely not? But it was as plain to him as the false interpretation was to Brock; Sassoon and Owen had spent the night together. He had known they were regulars at the Conservative Club downtown, which by all means did shut at 11.30pm, but he had presumed it was just more literary talk which he could make head nor tail of...How long had this been going on? Had Sassoon...had Owen even_ wanted _to spend the night with him? Was it possible that...Hundreds of terrible questions began circulating in Rivers' mind. He watched the two men for any sign of a connection, his baked beans forgotten on the plate in front of him. There were at least seven men separating the two in the line, and as far as Rivers could see there was no communication until they had both collected their plates.

Sassoon's eyes met his across the hall and he gestured to the seat facing Rivers. Rivers accepted with a swift movement of his hand. As Sassoon crossed the hall, it became inevitable that he would cross with Owen, walking with another tray in the opposite direction. Rivers watched the two men intently. Their eyes met just as they passed, and the fleeting knowing grin which Sassoon flashed was enough to convince him of last night's events. The uncharacteristically suave smile that Owen shot back at him only complicated Rivers' reasoning further. As Sassoon pulled up a chair at the table, Rivers watched Owen settling down onto the edge of a row three tables away. Brock, still muttering curses under his breath, had by now thankfully left.

"How are you?" Rivers began tentatively, although Sassoon appeared not to notice.

"Very well, thank you. Terrible storm last night though. Could barely sleep on the top floor."

"Yes. It was a rather bad one," Rivers placed his cutlery in the middle of his plate. More quietly, he continued, "And Mr Owen?" The awkwardness of the subject would surely not be prolonged if he was outright with Sassoon right now, would it? After all, Rivers could not remember ever referring to Sassoon's personal life deliberately during any of their past meetings.

Sassoon paused, his fork poised over a particularly watery-looking fried egg. Rivers had never asked him about Owen before. "I'm sorry?"

"Wilfred." Sassoon felt his heart lurch at the mention of Owen's name, and Rivers noticed the change in his features.

"He's...yes, he's fine." Rivers couldn't know anything.

Rivers smiled wanly at Sassoon over his spectacles, "I suppose he is fine, Sassoon, despite all those purple bruises on his neck."

Sassoon felt colour rise to his cheeks, and fast. He looked over at the table where Owen had squeezed into a place on the end with his plate of eggs and bacon. Rivers saw his horrified expression as he took note of the clear marks standing out against Owen's light skin in the beaming morning sunlight. He turned back to Rivers.

Neither of them spoke. Rivers could see Sassoon's mind running in circles behind his chewing jaw, but whether to formulate an excuse or feign indifference he had no clue. The fact that they were the only two left at the table could be seen as an advantage, Rivers mused, or a disadvantage. He left it for Sassoon to decide. For five minutes the doctor and patient busied themselves with their plates, albeit the cold beans which Rivers had neglected earlier.

"It's…it's _not what you're thinking_, Rivers-"

Rivers looked up at a clearly worried Sassoon. He folded his napkin and waited for Sassoon to continue. Sassoon's mouth made several attempts at forming a word, but he abandoned the thought each time. His brow furrowed in frustration. "Damn it, Rivers, you know I can't explain. But whatever you're asking yourself, whatever nonsense you're jumping to conclusions on, I can tell you that you have _very little evidence_."

"For God's sake, Sassoon!" Rivers hissed, his voice covered from other listeners by the clacking of plates and cutlery, "What do you take me for? _Who_, even? Do you have me penned down as one of the _supporters _of that Black Book which is circulating in London even as we speak?" Sassoon gazed down at his plate. Of course Rivers wasn't bothered by the morality of it. Of course. He had forgotten. But even so…

Rivers had had enough. He pushed out his chair and stood up. "Our appointment later, Mr. Sassoon. Twelve thirty on the dot, if I remember rightly. Now if you'll excuse me…"

Sassoon watched Dr Rivers leave the room with a heavy lead weighing on his heart. Lord only knew what Rivers was planning for their meeting later. Perhaps, although he didn't necessarily condemn him and Owen's actions, he still felt the situation too risky in a war mentality hospital which had no locks on doors. Worst of all, Rivers might have the idea that Sassoon was the perpetrator in all this; that he had forced Owen to…no, Sassoon pleaded with himself, no, that wasn't how it was at all. If only he could make Rivers understand. It was more than an orientation which had brought him and Owen together. It ran much deeper than that. Sassoon gazed across the hall at the young man who he had lain naked with only an hour ago. He observed the way the rays of sunlight fell into his coal black hair, highlighting the brown ends and darker roots. He was beautiful. Not even just to Sassoon; he had seen the way the VADs looked at Owen when it was their turn to tidy his room, or wash his bedclothes, the evaluating looks the local girls shot at him behind his back in the Conservative Club. Unbeknown to him, the shy young poet was never short of admirers.

For a moment he felt fear of losing him, but then remembered the anecdote Owen had recounted that morning. In 1914, the khaki-clad generals had paid a visit to Oswestry and a 21 year old Owen had been informed that if he joined up, he'd be 'spoilt for choice out of all the girls in the country'. How that had made Sassoon laugh; even now he had to cough in order to prevent a small smile from embedding itself in his face. Little had the general who made the comment known that having the choice of all the girls in the country wouldn't have pleased Wilfred Owen. Not in the slightest.

He needed to talk to him. Not just about Rivers, but just to talk – alone and without disruptions. But how? Sassoon knew where he'd be after breakfast. He saw him there every morning from his window; sitting under the old oak tree at the boundary line of the hospital, pen and paper in hand, and staring. Perhaps Sassoon never had been able to see what it was he was staring at. Or perhaps, there had been nothing there at all. Just air.

Sassoon pushed his plate away and made his way outside into the intense sunlight. Although the rays beamed down from the heavens, the November air still beat cold against his skin, and the trees looked confused at the change in weather. He traveled across the sprawling lawn until he found the oak tree parallel to his window on the third floor, and sat there on the uneven ground to wait. The ageing tree offered no shade from the sun to its resident due to its lack of leaves; instead, Sassoon savoured the sun's gift of light to him. A small part of him admitted that it would be a while before he would be touched by such glory again. Pulling a cigarette out of his coat pocket with a shuddering breath of anticipation, he waited for Owen to appear.


	4. Sailed My Spirit Surging

Sassoon once again reflected on the night before. Waves of an indescribable emotion coursed through his chest when he replayed in his memory the image of Owen's gasping face below his resting on the pillow. How did I let this go on so long without reaching out my hand? Sassoon questioned, even more aggravated with himself than he had been the night before for precisely the opposite reason. But he knew the answer. For fear of rejection. For fear of opinion, status, friendship, even persecution…and Owen's own fear. It should never matter – where had he read that once? 'The Intermediate Sex'. Rivers had mentioned it recently. Everyone else doesn't matter. Your status doesn't matter. Your background. Your family…Sassoon chuckled as he envisaged how his mother would take to Owen: "Siegfried! Why haven't you been writing? You know I always want to know how you're getting on…I'm sure Wilfred writes to his poor mother regularly?" She would say those words, Sassoon thought unkindly, and mean not one. She would think of Owen as the son she never had; polite, handsome, quietly spoken and intuitive…Sassoon and his brothers had run circles around her in their youth as she had tried to continue with the social status she had upheld before her hasty marriage to his father. Still, he knew his mother would love Owen. Maybe even as her own after Hamo. He tapped his cigarette ash out onto the worn grass. Mrs. Owen had already received many a letter about him, he was sure of it, and from what Owen had told Sassoon, was delighted that Owen was mixing with 'a man of such great literary presence in society.' Terrible, Sassoon grimaced. Absolutely terrible. But if that was what she wanted to believe, then she could be his guest in the matter. He just hoped she didn't ever ask him about his religious views. Moreover, this wasn't the most pressing problem. Sassoon pressed his hands into his forehead and wondered what Mrs. Owen's view was on homosexuality, especially that of her son's.

What he was still trying to digest was how easy it had been to simply _let go_. The second Owen's eyes had shown reciprocated feelings, Sassoon had abandoned his ruse and shown Owen who he really was. Thrown open the shutters to the side of him that had been concealed in the dark ever since the first day of the Somme. Vulnerable wasn't the word for how he felt whilst turning this thought over in his mind. Even in his Cambridge days, Sassoon had learned to hide. To lock things away, however large and demanding they appeared to be, since society ruled it out of the 'perfect world'. Yes, Sassoon was adept at locking things away. Only now, half of Europe was also. He believed every combatant, whether agricultural labourer or Cambridge graduate, had learnt the skill of locking things away with thanks to the war.

Since David, he had sworn…Mad Jack. The name still brought pain to his chest, and Sassoon had to gulp to dilute it. Since David had promised himself never to let anyone in again. It was too risky. Only something about Owen had thrown him completely off course. A ridiculous expression in all honesty, mused Sassoon, since he didn't know what course he had been following in the first place. He had been a lost soul, a half-being cast off from the front with no direction save a conviction to stop others from ending up like him. And then there had been Owen. Stuttering, gentle Owen, tactful to his sudden outbursts and the one who had taught him that sometimes, to sit quietly and listen was a blessing. Just like him.

A panic-ridden thought struck him through the heart as he contemplated this; what if Owen already…had a course he was following? Did he think of their new-found relationship as a passive state, which could be subject to change with the situation? Sassoon forced himself to calm down despite the cold sweat which had broken out on the back of his neck. Washe himself even prepared to carry this on? At the end of the day, taking into account all the dangers, how much did he and Owen really want this?

His manic thoughts were broken by the sight of a lone figure making its way across the grass towards him. It was Owen. Sassoon's heart lifted at the sight of the younger man's smiling, yet still undeniably shy, face. Owen walked tentatively towards him; the look on his face reminding Sassoon of someone who was reluctant to move in case they found eyes betrayed them. This relieved his emotions slightly. Owen was still in awe of this, too. Sassoon smiled.

Finally, Owen reached the limited cover of the tree's bare boughs. He settled himself next to Sassoon, and for a moment the two men sat together in silence. Sassoon was not normally a fan of it, but here, he perceived, in this situation, it felt and was right. A heavy, content silence, only interrupted by the occasional call of birds across the woodland behind their backs.

Sassoon glanced over at Owen. For the first time in his life which he could remember, he felt self-conscious. Owen's barely concealed grin in return melted all this away however, and Sassoon's doubts were filled and then some by the young man before him. He was, as seemed common now, the first to speak.

"So…"

"Terrible wind last night, wasn't there?"

The two men laughed at each other's expression. Their laughter was accompanied by a light breeze which swept several autumn leaves up and soaring over the building before them, taking several empty cigar butts with it. The light breeze was more than enough to ruffle Wilfred's chestnut hair as he laughed, and Sassoon was drawn to him as the wind gathered force. He reached out his hand and softly stroked Owen's cheek, a smile spreading across his face which could only have been produced by utter liberation. Owen reached up and touched his hand with his, eyes never leaving Sassoon's in this minute window of time. A final gust of wind shook the boughs above them and crumpled the bushes, and in that fleeting moment Owen brought his lips to Sassoon's, touching their souls before time stole it away. Away from each other; and away from what they shared. No more regrets, Owen decided. Time moved too fast for that in 1917.

Suddenly, the world was still again, and the two were still knelt beneath the tree, Owen's hand clasped in Sassoon's, and the unspoken words between them further lessened in number. Owen, seeming slightly less dazzled now, stretched his legs out whilst propping his back up against the oak's trunk, "You have Rivers today, don't you?" He never took his eyes off Sassoon, a permanent small smile attached to his pale cheeks. "I never forget. You always have that same agitated look when you leave his office."

"I do. Twelve thirty. And in all honestly, Wilfred, I think he knows."

"Knows what?"

"About us."

Owen sat up straight again, panic engulfing his perfect features. "What?" he whimpered, eyes searching Sassoon's face for answers, "But how?"

Sassoon relayed to him the conversation at the breakfast table from half an hour before. When he'd finished, Owen was quiet for a minute. Sassoon noticed the burns on his neck even more in the open air. He watched Owen as he looked down at the purple poppies which had flowered upon his neck. To Sassoon, they were a symbol. Not of ownership, or hurt - Christ, no - but of something deeper. A link between the loud, bravado-sporting and, sometimes, obnoxious Royal Welch Fusilier, and the softly spoken, nervous yet ultimately cheerful member of the Manchesters. Utterly different; yet utterly the same.

The poppies made Owen giggle. He was amused by the sincerity of their actions the night before; it had been so life-changing, so unexpected yet so inevitable that the only way he could exhale the feelings inside of him was by laughter, or else he feared the elation that was welling inside his chest might vanish, along with the man beside him. His laughter, however, died in his throat as Owen began to fully understand the consequences of Rivers and possibly the rest of Craiglockhart discovering exactly what had happened last night in the west wing of the hospital.

"I don't think he's going to take any real action; that is, I know for a fact that he doesn't condemn the morals of it all -" Sassoon felt Owen squeeze his hand tighter, "- but there aren't many like him. People who understand, I mean."

"No. It's lucky in that sense." Owen's voice sounded dry.

"I dread to think what sort of interrogation he's got planned for me later. It probably involves some sensitive questions...typical of Rivers, of course...I don't know what idea he's fitted together in his head, but from his tone earlier I daren't suppose it's a realistic one."

"He probably thinks you don't know what you're doing. That we...haven't thought through the consequences it could have on both of us."

The wind whistled through the branches above, carrying on its wings the major question which had been plaguing Sassoon ever since breakfast.

"Do we? Know what we're doing, that is."

Owen's eyes connected with his. Sometimes, Sassoon thought, words were not even necessary with him and Wilfred. They shared so many on parchment and in their minds that occasionally a long look would suffice the things that justice wouldn't be done to through speech. He remembered the time when he'd asked Owen, albeit in an excuse for conversation, what he planned to do after the war, and Owen had answered him with one such stare. "Pig keeping," he'd finally uttered, before turning back to the piles of draft paper flooding his desk. It had taken Sassoon a few minutes to realize the significance; words, despite him holding the ability to mould them into his imagination, were not enough for the capability of Owen's mind.

"I suppose he believes you can't just suddenly go from hiding the majority of your life to freedom of expression. There has to be an in-between." Sassoon struggled to articulate a point of view he was abandoning even as the words left his mouth.

Owen leant over and placed one of his lean, artistic hands onto Sassoon's arm. "What if I'm prepared to try?" he asked, and Sassoon felt his heart stop in his chest.

Owen continued, "Hiding things has to have realization first. When I was 18, I left home to work as a lay assistant to a vicar in Dunsden. I never knew any different to what my mother and father had told me as I was growing up; religion was the way of life. Bible teachings and verses hammered into me since I was born...why would I ever need to question them? The vicar was a self-righteous, cynical old man, who not only promoted the brewing conflict in Europe, but preached the importance of peace in his sermons every Sunday. I kept thinking to myself, surely it's not possible to call yourself a Christian and leave out all the awkward bits. I worked with the vulnerable of the village, and it disillusioned me seeing suffering in such a developed country." The memory distressed Owen. He made a visible effort to calm down, brushing his hand across his forehead, "I ended up...well, not rebelling, but you know, giving up on what you believed to be true your whole life is a shock in itself. When I did eventually voice my views to Father Layton, he accused me of blasphemy and told me that with that kind of outlook, I would never reach any respectful position in the church. "Well, I think I can live with that." I said, and the next morning I packed my bags. Later, I went to France to teach English. Strange, really, how it all changed within a moment; my future, my belief, and my freedom most of all." He grew silent, eyes fixated on the auburn leaves decorating the grounds. Sassoon saw the same emotion as was engulfing him spreading through the younger man's physique. Both were afraid of the other's reaction.

"But I-I believe it can happen. It did to me. I know it c-could again."

To think, thought Sassoon, that he had ever wanted anyone else. Owen's tentative look at him told him everything he needed to know. Breathing in, he released all doubt and worry to the flurry of leaves turning over their heads, that they might be carried away for now and return only when his head would hit the pillow that coming night. England was engaged in a war of such devastating scale that now could only be the best time for months, years, perhaps centuries, in which to do the unthinkable. He cupped Owen's querying face in his hands.

"Let it, then. Let it happen. And fuck France if it gets in the way."

A laugh escaped Owen's mouth before Sassoon covered it with more long-overdue kisses.


	5. Falling, Warm and Still

"I will say it once, and once only. I don't believe, Sassoon, that you're aware of the _severity_ of your actions last night. Did you not hear my reference earlier to that Black Book doing the rounds in London under [MP's name]? The government's tearing itself to pieces over it. In war, there's this huge emphasis put onto comradeship; love between men. Only throughout it all, there's this worrying little niggle in the back of everyone's minds – is it the right _kind_ of love? The only way to make sure it is for many is to make it clear what happens to those who don't conform. Sassoon, this is a war hospital for officers. There are people here who consider a relationship of that nature-"

"Abnormal? Peculiar? _Unorthodox_?" Sassoon spat, pacing up and down the spacious office. He shot angry looks at Rivers in between attempting to focus his rage on the carpet, "Is that the kind of language they'd use? Well, let me tell you how _I _find their views. Disgusting. Unethical. And downright inconsiderate_._ We're all human, are we not? Is love not something which the majority of people _commend _in life? Surely then there's no reason why-"

Rivers cut him off. "I'm not here to discuss ethics, Siegfried. You can interview any civilian or churchman if you want to know answers to those questions. The view I am trying to convince you to, however, is that during the present climate actions like this simply_ aren't going to be viewed as acceptable behaviour._ Yes, in the future, the situation may improve - and I personally hope it does, for the sake of many - but that fails to change the here and now. It's dangerous, Siegfried. Evidently more dangerous than you understand."

"I understand!" Sassoon fumed, gripping the edge of Rivers' desk with both hands. He breathed out in a controlled fashion. "I understand. But I _also_ understand that sometimes…" he looked up at Rivers, "…sometimes, life throws situations at you, and you end up taking them for granted. By the time you realize it's important – sometimes the most important thing that'll ever waltz its way into your life - damn! It's gone, Rivers. And it's never coming back."

Rivers was silent. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, watching the officer in front of him. What had happened to the assertive self-made hero who had stepped into his hospital less than a month ago? Was this _all _Owen's influence? If so, he'd never known two patients to have such an impact on each other before. Surely he couldn't have missed this. But Rivers digressed. He remembered the argument he felt surrounded Owen's involvement in this whole episode.

"Neither me nor Owen want that to happen. With…us."

Rivers cleared his throat: "That brings me to another point. Owen himself, Sassoon. You've been in my care for more than three weeks now. I knew you were friends; were close, both interested in literary subjects and all. I'd even seen you down at the Conservative Club together a few times. But never once did I suspect…did I even _consider _the thought that you…"

Sassoon bowed his head. His voice sounded strangled. "We weren't. I suppose that's the simple reason."

"Then last night was all a – a –? Christ, Sassoon –!"

Sassoon snapped his head up again, "A what? What do you mean?"

"Did Owen actually _want _to spend the night with you, Sassoon?" Rivers shouted, all sense of control gone. How dare Sassoon do such a monstrous thing here of all places. How dare he commit such a crime at all! Owen was only 24, and such a nervous little thing. Rivers supposed he simply hadn't been able to defend himself well enough.

A thundering crash resounded throughout the room. Rivers watched in shock as Sassoon pushed his desk over onto the floor, paper flying everywhere and rage glittering within his eyes. Watering eyes. He paced over to Rivers with a sense of deliberation and clamped his hands down onto the doctor's shoulders.

"NO!" The denial was less like a shout, and more like a statement. Sassoon's breathing was short and rapid in Rivers' face, "No, you have it all, all wrong!…I told you, I told you, it's not what you think, Rivers. I'm his…I'm his! And he's mine, don't you see? He's mine. He always has been. It's always been Wilfred. Always. Always, Rivers…"

Sassoon seemed suddenly to become aware of his position. He slumped backwards into one of the remaining chairs, hand covering his face. Rivers, still alarmed but now recomposed, took the seat closest to him quietly.

"I'm sorry. Oh Christ, I'm sorry, Rivers. God."

Rivers patted his arm lightly. He tried to make his tone of voice sound even: "That's alright. I think I need to apologize too. I've misunderstood, haven't I?"

Sassoon's chest shook with repressed emotion. "Oh Hell, yes. Yes. It's always been him, Rivers. David?"

Rivers nodded in acute remembrance as Sassoon glanced up at him through red eyes, "Yes."

"I never…nobody was to get in after D-David. Nobody. But then there was Owen. And I tried, I did, and I managed. I did manage. He would never have known. Then last night, there was an incident…in the lounge when we got home…I-I took his hand. And I ran away. I c-couldn't stand the thought of…of frightening him. I was horrified…it was him who came and found me. It turned out I-I hadn't been the only one managing."

Rivers smiled faintly, his gaze directed out of the window. Sassoon continued in a shaky manner: "…and then there was me and Owen. Do you, do you - see? God, I'm sorry. Rivers."

"Sassoon." The dark haired man turned to look at the doctor. "I apologize for my – assumption. But I'm afraid I can't change the other points. Society is how it is. What you and Owen have consummated will not be able to survive in these kinds of conditions."

Sassoon wiped his cheeks on his sleeve. The sunlight was still glistening in through the full windows. It cast a lengthy projection over him and the older figure to his left. He sighed once more. "That's where our views don't correlate, Rivers." Sassoon stood and walked to the window, taking in the seemingly limitless view of the spiraling hills and dales which formed the Scottish countryside.

He inhaled deeply: "Wilfred and I want to run with this. Run, and run, and run, and if necessary, run some more. I don't want to give this up. It's like I've suddenly found where I belong - I told you when I arrived that I've never known that before."

"You said the only place you've ever felt you truly belonged is in the army."

Sassoon felt his expression darken.

"Don't criticize my next words. But this, this all doesn't sound like the Sassoon I thought I knew. Tell me - are you still thinking about the Declaration?"

"It's totally separate. If anything, this has given me more depth of reason for it."

"You must know that if you carry this on, then your Declaration will slide even further from the minds of the politicians. It's more likely that they'll disregard its content now you've been sent here to me, but the likelihood of that increases even more if you and Owen's involvement circulates also. You must realize that, Siegfried. It's impossible to keep them separate. Furthermore, this involves you alone no longer. You have to think of Owen in all of this, as well."

Sassoon turned to face him, the poet's face shadowed by the receding sun of late afternoon. Stubborn, thought Rivers as he placed his glasses down onto one of the few chairs left standing. Although perhaps that would end as a blessing to the man. He hoped so. Nevertheless, Rivers knew he had said all that he could. He made one last feeble attempt directed at the dark figure across the room.

"If you are in danger, then Owen is naturally going to be placed in just as much. Will that…not be a problem, be difficult for you? Do you want him to be exposed to that serious a risk?"

Sassoon chuckled bitterly, "Whether we consummate this or not, he'll be in far worse peril at the Front, which is where he'll no doubt end up eventually thanks to this wretched 'recovery' system." He continued in a softer voice, "Face it, Rivers, ending up punished for being with the person you love is a far preferable fate than dying slowly in a shellhole with your legs shot off."

Rivers didn't answer, instead walking back to the overturned desk and setting it upright again. Sassoon's sense of conscience aggravated him; howbeit he could not entirely ignore that small whisper in the corner of his own insisting that his easiest yet most onerous patient was, in fact, correct.


	6. Sing Me at Eve

Evening was always a stressful time for Owen. It was the time in which he found it hardest to concentrate on writing, and reading became tedious unless it was done with company and a glass of wine. This particular evening, his general mood was not helped by the trying hour he had just spent attempting to convince Brock that no, he was not on a 'downwards spiral', and no, he did not want to be moved into the sick bay for closer observation. He didn't consider himself to be an angry person – in reality, most of those who knew him were abject to comment on his peaceful manner – but something about their meeting today had struck a clashed chord in him. Maddening, to see Brock's anxious face peering at him from behind those half moon spectacles, talking in that soft patronizing tone he'd seen the doctor reserve for the most mentally insecure occupants, and frustrating, to hold the knowledge that he could never truly explain what had caused the bruises without awful consequences. When he'd arrived at the hospital, he most certainly had been 'shell-shocked'; but it was his view that no combatant had escaped the war unscathed by its horror. It was impossible to do so. Plenty of men had fallen to their knees, driven mad by what they had witnessed and taken part in, and in Owen's opinion many more would never, when the war finally came to an end, quite truly be the same men again.

"I thought we were past all this, Owen. You've been an exceptionally progressive case right from the start. What's caused this sudden – well, _relapse?_" Owen fumed silently at these words as he strode along the carpeted corridor. There _was_ no relapse. He wasn't mad. Nutty, perhaps, for arriving at this safe haven and consequently falling head over heels for a literary celebrity who he'd believed, no doubt, hadn't the time for him. The thought caused a shy smile to spread over his lips. How wrong he had been. _I knew you wanted me, Sass._

He shook the memories from his head. They and their incredibility could be dwelled upon later; when he was alone…what mattered right at this moment was finding Sassoon. He needed to explain to him about Brock. Owen hadn't seen him since lunch, when they'd been prized away from the shadow of the oak tree by Sassoon's appointment with Rivers. Time had passed so quickly. Owen remembered Sassoon's shy hand on his as they had talked. _The only time the world will ever see Siegfried Sassoon in a self-conscious light._ He grinned to himself once more. It was such a shame that nobody else would ever see that sight. He knew Rivers would've given his right arm for it.

Owen realized he was standing outside Sassoon and Campbell's room. Knocking tentatively, he tried frantically to erase some of the anger and stress from his youthful features. He heard footsteps, and the door then swung open to reveal a tall, sneering man with a drooping moustache. He smirked at Owen's expression of evident surprise and embarrassment, and leant against the doorframe whilst looking the younger man up and down.

"Looking for Mr. Poet? He's fucked off somewhere else, I'm afraid. Better luck with Fritz next time, squire."

The door slammed in his face. Slightly shocked, Owen staggered back down the stairs. Fritz? Just because of the name Siegfried? He understood suddenly why Sassoon so desperately wanted a room change.

Where _was_ Sass? His appointments with Rivers usually only lasted about an hour, an hour and a half at most. It was now 6 o'clock, and there was nothing to be seen of him. He debated asking Rivers, but was stopped by fear of what he'd said to Sassoon about him in their earlier appointment. Would he ever be able to look the doctor in the face again? Knowing that he knew…

Worried and frustrated again, Owen made his way back to his own room. More slaving away over 'The Dead Beat' would be his schedule tonight. _He dropped, - more sullenly than wearily, lay stupid like a cod, heavy like meat..._

There seemed to be a figure waiting outside his door. Owen's pulse quickened. He hurried towards it, squinting in the dim light to make out the man's features. He seemed to be sitting slouched against the wall; almost as if he'd been waiting there for some time. At the sound of Owen's footsteps, the man looked up and started. It was Sassoon.

"Owen! Where have you been? I was looking…all over…"

Sassoon abruptly began to look faintly embarrassed. Owen, full of relief and a desperate urge to kiss him, hesitated, glancing behind himself in the direction of Sassoon's gaze. _Ah._ His roommate, Glen, was stood at the top of the stairs with an amused smile on his face. He looked from Owen to Sassoon and back again.

Sassoon could barely breathe. Had they just been discovered? Already? Barely 24 hours had passed since…But the man was simply shaking his head, chuckling lightly as he pushed past Owen and on into Room 56. "Bloody poets." they heard him grunt as he clicked the door shut in his wake.

Sassoon breathed a sigh of relief. He caught Owen's eye, and inevitable laughter sparked between them, Owen leaning against the doorframe to support himself. His eyes leaked as he looked at Sassoon's still partially shocked expression. _Bloody poets_…Sassoon pulled at his arm and motioned to the door at the end of the passage. The noise of their laughter was getting to the point where they needed to relocate for fear of disturbing other patients. Still giggling, Owen followed him, relishing the feel of Sassoon's hand through his shirt.

The door didn't lead to the next corridor like Owen had expected it to, or even to outside. It was an empty room. Owen could've sworn Brock and the other doctors had been complaining only this afternoon about the lack of room available in the hospital, although at this particular moment he did not seem to care. As soon as the door was shut, Sassoon pulled the younger man into his arms, crushing their chests together and inhaling his sweet smell of…hay? Hay. Silence enveloped them; but for once, it was needed. The day had been stressful for them both. Owen pressed his forehead into Sassoon's shoulder, nuzzling it to prove to himself that yes, this was Sassoon – it was his arms he was in. He exhaled slowly.

"I've been looking for you all afternoon."

"I know. I was with Rivers for quite some time. I got out at 4 o'clock – where were you after that?"

"Writing. But I came out for another look at 5. Perhaps we just missed each other?"

"Perhaps."

Sassoon's left hand pressed firmer into Owen's lower back. It made him feel safe, holding him so near like this. Like nothing could cut them in half. Nothing.

A pause. "He was as understanding as I could've hoped him to be, being Rivers and all." he gulped.

Owen moved so that the two were nose to nose in the dimly lit room. Sassoon suppressed a gasp. Everything about Owen intoxicated him – his good looks, his smell, his fiery eyes. It was all he couldn't do to decrease the gap between their mouths and kiss him, again and again until everything made sense. Which it surely would; once he'd kissed Owen enough that was. He smiled to himself.

"What're you smiling at?" Owen was grinning himself, dimples appearing in his cheeks. After Sassoon shook his head, he squeezed Sassoon's shoulders softly whilst looking him in the eye, "I feel I know you too well. He said something you didn't like, didn't he? What was it?"

Sassoon sighed. "He's convinced that society's going to break us apart." He spoke the last three words in a dulled tone, masking his feelings of dread at the prospect. Owen's eyes fluttered downwards and glued themselves to the floor. Sassoon wondered what his response would be.

Minutes passed. Sassoon pressed his forehead against Owen's, closing his eyes and entwining the fingers of their right hands. He had meant what he had said to Rivers. _It's like I've suddenly found where I belong – I told you when I arrived that I've never known that before._

"And what did you say to that?"

Sassoon's mouth felt dry. "I told him that ending up punished for being with the person you love is a far preferable fate than dying slowly in a shellhole with your legs shot off."

Owen's drooping eyes snapped open, startled. "Those exact words?" he said uneasily, the expression on his face betraying that he scarcely dared to believe the truth behind it. Sassoon nodded, squeezing Owen's hand beneath his as Owen contemplated this. The younger poet looked amazed, and it was then that Sassoon realized they were in the same position – neither had loved like this ever before.

"Wilfred," Sassoon whispered into his ear, pulling his lips up to press against his. Owen melted beneath him, his mouth opening and their tongues touching as he pressed him gently back against the wall. Owen's hands were everywhere, and Sassoon's mind was somewhere outside his body; he had no thoughts, apart from a consciousness of the seemingly endless bliss which was engulfing his whole body. He wound his arms around Owen, wanting to get as close to him as possible, and partly just wanting to touch those hips again…

Owen pushed his fingers up and through Sassoon's hair, resting them on his neck with his thumb grazing Sassoon's jaw line. He deepened the kiss, and Sassoon shuddered in response. What Sassoon had said had proved the improvable. It had taken his heart and soared with it over all the earth, over France and far beyond…nobody could touch them now. There was just him and Sassoon and this room and forever. He needed nothing more now to be happy.


	7. Terror in Wonderment

"Last night." Sassoon shifted his arms around Owen as they lay side by side on the nearest bed a few minutes later, "I wondered…did you want to – so quickly - ?"

Owen was quiet. Sassoon shifted again, his forehead nudging the chin of the other man. His words tumbled out in a rush, "Only, I wondered if I did rush you and if so, I'm profoundly sorry, I-"

"Sass." The rumble of Owen's voice sent warm shivers down Sassoon's spine, "…You could never have rushed me. Last night was probably," he shuffled down the bedspread until their eyes were level, "No, _definitely_ the most amazing night of my life so far –" Sassoon suppressed a pleased smile, "-and I wouldn't change a single thing."

Sassoon had to ask. "So you'd never…before?"

Owen cast his eyes downwards and colour crept into his otherwise pale cheeks. "No, I – no, I hadn't." He began fiddling with his shirt cuffs nervously, "I mean, there were a few others, in Bordeaux, and London, but I never – we never –" he sighed in frustration. "I never did anything like was so hard _without_ that I can't even imagine what it would have been like if -" Sassoon nodded sympathetically, which seemed to create a newfound courage in Owen, "And then there came the war, and there was so much – so much more_ leniency_. I think I almost forgot myself a couple of times." He laughed nervously.

Sassoon chuckled. "Dark trench corners. Am I right?"

"I – yes." Owen grinned sheepishly. He moved his hands tentatively to touch the silver buttons on Sassoon's tunic, "Had you…?"

Damn. A moment's pause. Sassoon nodded grudgingly: "Yes. Yes, I – I had."

Owen withdrew his hands. "Oh, I-"

Sassoon quickly pressed his hands down onto Owen's shoulders, laying him gently flat on his back. Owen's face wore the look of slight surprise. Gently, Sassoon lowered his hand to stroke Owen's cheek. He heard the younger poet inhale sharply, and he whispered into his ear as their foreheads touched momentarily. "But it means nothing – _nothing_ – on last night, Will. Or me and you. I was lost, I didn't know where I was going or what I was doing; living off inheritance and hunting every day, crashing out of Cambridge without finishing…but then there was the war. As you said." He felt Owen's face crease into a smile. "As you said! And there was one. There was one…" Sassoon breathed deeply. Control was essential to prevent Owen from finding out how much David had meant to him. "…but it was a long time ago. This is now."

Owen was quiet. His light hands drew circles on Sassoon's back: "I'm – I'm not offended, you know."

"Yes. Although I want you to know, Will - this isn't something I've felt before. It's like…we're bound together. And you're just everything. Everything. I-"

He was stopped by Owen's lips upon his. Sassoon smiled. Everything. He leaned into the kiss, feeling Owen's smooth fingers touching the nape of his neck. The sun dipped deeper over the Pentland Hills, casting longer and longer shadows across the sparse room made so much brighter by the two souls entwined across the bed.

"Well - the only thing _I _wish is that you'd plucked up the courage to come and get me to sign those copies of The Old Huntsman sooner and not been so goddamn shy." Sassoon joked as Owen finally released him, running a hand through his tangled hair as he stretched against the covers. He grinned at Owen's pouting face, "I'm only joking, Onlie Begetter."

Owen rolled over to face him. "I couldn't help staring. One, I'd never shown my poems to anyone before, let alone a published poet, and two, you were…_.extremely good looking_. Especially when you concentrate. Your brow furrows and your eyes dilate when you find something interesting, and your _arms_…God, believe me; it was difficult to look anywhere else in those poetry sessions."

He cocked a sly eyebrow at Sassoon, who was blushing indefinitely. Sassoon found he quite liked this charming side of Owen. It had been a shock at first, no less – Sassoon had never thought there to be anything so outgoing shielded behind those cerulean eyes of his, let alone something which Owen would use _on him_ - although at the right moments, the flirting was undeniably attractive. Something told him that behind closed doors he would enjoy being the dominant one...but first it would be Sassoon's turn. He grinned upwards at the peeling paint of the ceiling. How incredibly arousing that prospect seemed.

He felt Owen's smooth warm hand tugging at his collar, and soon they were in each other's arms again, the cocooned sensation from the previous night returning in the soft light of sundown petering through the small window. Sassoon breathed in the scent of Wilfred's hair, enjoying the yielding feel of it between his fingers.

This was all his, and would be for as long as eternity. For some reason, in the past three years Sassoon had come to struggle with differentiating between eternity and the end of the war. Many viewed eternity as the idea of continuity; was that not what this annihilation represented right at this moment in time?

Dear God. His lips stilled against Wilfred's, and he closed his eyes against his lover's chest. Sassoon found himself deadened by the thought of being the only one left after all this destruction. After all, many of his friends' time had already come – who could say when his turn would be? Or Wilfred's?

"It's not so simple, Sass." Owen's voice reverberated through his forehead as the younger man whispered in the silence enveloping them, "It never has been. The war doesn't choose who lives or dies, it doesn't choose who fights and falls, and it never has. Don't you see? So many things are happening. Life is carrying on. In fact, the end is already here. We just have to make it there."

_How did he know? _The warm air choked on their stillness.

"Sass?"

A muffled reply from Sassoon forced Owen to lift up his friend's chin so their eyes were level. He was shocked to see Sassoon's brimming with tears. Tears which, thought Owen, looked as if they had been brewing there for a long, long time.

"Did you say something?" he asked quietly.

"I said, h-hold me. Please, hold me, Will."

Owen obliged. He held Sassoon's dark head in his arms until the small room became shrouded in darkness by the sun's departure, and the dinner bell ringing out downstairs brought other, more disturbing thoughts to the forefront of his mind. Softly stroking Sassoon's hairline, he leant down and whispered into his friend's ear. It was time to face the world.


	8. Streaming Banners of Dawn

"Two!"

The quiet pop of Sassoon's golf ball into the hole was followed by raucous laughter from the tall, brown-haired man by his side. Hills stretched out away from the course as far as the eye could see, and the oak trees surrounding the Pentland Hills were fluttering their remaining leaves lightly in the breeze. The golf course was busier than usual this Saturday; Edinburgh residents had arrived in wagons this morning laden with picnics and wind-blown faces, ready to enjoy a family day out amid the rolling valley. The sun, partially obscured by a layer of thick white cloud, was giving the already stodgy air a humid feel. It was on days like these when Sassoon found it hardest to imagine France.

He chuckled and looked down at Graves, who was bent in half trying to reduce his laughter. "So much for your great shot, Sass," he grinned up at him, "What was _that_?"

"A warm up!" Sassoon replied indignantly, though the remnants of a smile were still present on his face. "It was a warm up shot. I doubt you can do better anyway, I presume home service doesn't provide many opportunities for golf."

"On the contrary," Graves stepped a few feet in front of him and warily aimed his club at the ball, "They're actually quite lenient on the paperwork. Most of it's done up in London apparently. It would explain why it takes so bloody long for conscripts to get posted overseas – they spend four months at training camp in Southampton, and then have to wait another two for their forms to be sent up the country again! Ridiculous…but yes, I've got a fair amount of free time. I've even managed to write a bit. God knows how."

Graves swung, and the ball soared across the valley, landing somewhere near to the stream and naturally nowhere near the necessary hole. Sassoon watched the small ball become airborne, spreading its invisible wings in temporary flight. _As prisoned birds must find in freedom, winging wildly across the white orchards and green fields, on – on – and out of sight._

Sassoon blinked. He was sick of this happening. Ever since he'd arrived at this god-forsaken hospital the Muse had begun paying him visits at the most inconvenient of times; usually ones where he didn't have a pencil and paper on his person. He'd tried walking around with them tucked into his pocket, but typically when he was expecting it, it never came. He wondered if Owen experienced the same thing. Interestingly, the only time he _had_ managed to write down a snippet was when he was with Owen. Sassoon smiled at the memory. Untangling himself from the other man in the middle of the night and staggering over to Owen's writing table to hammer out those two verses which had been swimming in his head ever since his eyes had closed resting against the younger man's forehead…Sleeping in each other's beds had become a regularity for them now, although it would become easier when Sassoon was given his own room in a few weeks' time. Sassoon enjoyed the feel of Owen's soft even breathing in his ear as they lay embraced together under the smooth sheets. He sometimes lay awake to listen to him; just to know that he was safe. His own lack of sleep didn't matter. It was Owen who he wanted to protect.

"I'm serving as inspiration now, then?" Graves peered over Sassoon's shoulder as he scribbled the lyric down onto a napkin he'd found stuffed into his pocket, "I thought I was always too _loud _to be featured in any of your poems."

Sassoon shoved the napkin back into his tunic. "I never said that. Only that you seem unable to sit still or just pause long enough for anyone to observe anything of interest."

"Of _interest?_" Sassoon had to duck as Graves swatted him with the bat, laughing again. "If I remember rightly, my stories about the B Company's rats kept you entertained for hours in Messines."

"That was different, Robert – we were up to our knees in putrid mud. Anything was going to amuse me then. Even bloody Jones and his stupid accent-"

"Hooway the noow…Mister Sassssssson…_My name has two os in it, boy!_"

They laughed again as they descended the hill. It had only been last week that Graves had announced he was coming to visit him for the day, and Sassoon had been worried that he would notice something. Something different about him. They had been in the same trench and the same dugout for more than two years, and although Sassoon liked to think that nobody knew him as well as Robert did, if he was going to tell him anything about Owen he wanted it to be by his choice. As it was though, they were having as good a time as ever. Robert was enjoying himself on home service – after the state of his lungs from France, there was no questioning him remaining here for the rest of the war – and his tall, broad figure brought a lighter air to Sassoon's view of the hospital.

There were no doubts about what Robert's reaction might be. Sassoon wouldn't entrust Robert with his life three times over for nothing; Graves was fully aware of the nature of Sassoon's personal life. Sassoon had even cause for belief, and great cause it was, that Robert might actually have sympathy for the cause than he ever let on. Sassoon tightened his grip on the golf club. But that wasn't important. Anymore.

"So what _have_ you been getting up to?" Graves questioned him as they stumbled down the hilly paths back to the hospital grounds, "There's golf, books, and poetry definitely, but surely writing letters isn't enough?"

Sassoon looked at him, confused. Graves sighed exasperatedly and waved his hands in front of his friend's face, "Come _o-on_, Sass. Slow on the uptake. _Have you made any friends? _Don't say you've been here all this time and not even _tried_ to socialize with anyone you deem as 'dotty'."

Sassoon punched Robert on the upper arm, who grumbled in response. "You're making me sound like some sort of sociopath. Rivers is a remarkable companion."

"Yes, but _aside_ from Rivers."

Sassoon hoped Robert would mistake his breathlessness as a consequence of uphill walking, "It turns out I'm not the only poet in Dottyville. An officer from the Manchesters knocked on my door in early August with several copies of _The Old Huntsman_ under his arm."

"You must have been appalled."

"Quite. Although we had quite a lot to talk about. He mentioned he wrote – nothing published yet – and I offered to look over some of his poems for him. It turns out they're actually rather remarkable."

"I'm surprised, Sass." Robert flashed him a grin that twisted Sassoon's stomach with anticipation, "There's not usually much non-published poetry that wins over Siegfried Sassoon first time around."

"You'll see what I mean when you read them," Sassoon gabbled, trying to keep the conversation as estranged from him and Owen together as possible, "They're quite sublime. I said I'd give him a hand getting some of the better ones into _The Nation_, but I think early publishing would be a bad idea. The more time the better."

"I see. And you two get on well? Or is this just another one of your student and teacher things where you keep any conversation completely devoid of emotion…"

Sassoon's mouth felt dry. "What, me and Ow…? Yes, we – we get on fine."

"Is he a golfer?"

"Not much. We mostly just write. Sometimes share ideas, that sort of thing. He doesn't know many published poets. I'm thinking of writing him an introductory letter to Robbie."

The pair walked on in silence for a while. After a few minutes the stone cavern which was Craiglockhart loomed out before them over the hills, the very sight of it punctuating a cold shiver into Sassoon's heart. As they neared the gates Sassoon caught sight of a lone figure in the distance, sitting curled up beneath the beams of a gnarled oak tree he had recently come to know so well with a book open on their knees. His heart filled with warmth again and jumped into his mouth – it was Owen.

Graves stopped at the top of a particularly large hill and began fumbling in his pocket for a cigarette.. Sassoon waited beside him, shifting his balance from one foot to the other whilst trying to hide his intense mental struggle from Robert. Did he tell him now? Or should he let the two meet, and then tell Robert afterwards? No, surely that would make it more difficult. Or easier. Goddammit, he needed a cigarette.

"Here." Sassoon gratefully accepted Graves' offer, enjoying the familiar sensation as he drew the deep fumes into his lungs.

Graves grinned at him and lit his own with a match. "Bet this is the first one of those you've had since before you got here." He leant forward to light the tip of Sassoon's cigarette with his own, his grey eyes swimming dangerously close to Sassoon's.

And that was all it took. Sassoon breathed in, transported back to that day. The day before the Somme, and that hill overlooking the riverbank where he and Robert had sat with him, talking about the future. Siegfried, Robert and…David. How everything was going to change. How somehow, between the three of them, they would prevent annihilation on such a grand scale from ever happening again…what hope that was. But it had seemed right, on that evening where the sunset's pink finger trails had seemed to paint the entire sky with their apprehension and, strange though it seemed, contentment. What he remembered most was watching the last dab of colour fade from the horizon under that scratchy blanket next to David; clothes pooled at their feet and boots tangled in a thorn bush in their haste to undress after Robert had thankfully gone back to the mess early. The last time they had…the image of their dirty blonde hair stuck together and David's flushed face flashed in front of Sassoon's eyes as Graves stood before him now, chilling him to the bone in its painful remembrance. He gulped. That wasn't even the major part.

The major part was thus: Sassoon remembered little of the two months after David's death. What he did remember, though, was how he would not have been able to survive without Robert. Robert had always been there. Covering for his sentry duty while Sassoon had lain sprawled out on the floor of the dugout in some semi-conscious state; organizing for David's possessions to be sent back home and his family notified; forcibly pulling him down from the parapet that awful time when Sassoon had tried to…He wouldn't've been surprised if Robert suddenly admitted he'd replied to a letter from Sassoon's mother pretending to be him. Ironically, this had also been the time in which he had allegedly earned his Military Cross. _Owing to his courage and determination_ - more like blind fury and depression. And then there had been that night when the shells had shrieked like murdered angels all over the trench, angry purple light flashing everywhere, and Robert could have run away and left Sassoon, who had just wanted to die anyway, to the beam of demise; but instead he had stayed. Stayed with his arms wrapped around his friend, stayed with his silver eyes lingering on Sassoon's and done what he knew was best. What he'd known was best all along. He'd told Sassoon that when they'd fallen asleep together slumped against the trench wall afterwards, once again a blanket – the same blanket – covering their skin against each other. Sassoon had watched Robert sleep, wanting to remember how striking his untidy hair looked in contrast to No Man's Land in the background. Sassoon had touched his bare chest, and known that this was the finish. This would not happen again.

"Sass?"

Sassoon coughed as the thick smoke engulfed his lungs. "It's been a while since I did this," he smiled. His voice did not waver, and he returned his friend's gaze. Nothing was different. What Robert didn't know he remembered, Sassoon silently decided, was not going to hurt him.


End file.
